


pride is not the word i'm looking for

by SummerFrost



Series: call me son (one more time) [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, i'm not going to hell for this but mostly because i was going already, mostly due to alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-21 23:10:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11954655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerFrost/pseuds/SummerFrost
Summary: Kent spends his Cup day with the wrong Zimmermann.





	pride is not the word i'm looking for

**Author's Note:**

> Blithelybonny wrote this in chat!fic with me and then.......things progressed. I love you <3
> 
> (Additional shoutout to Verbyna/soundslikepenance for hopping on this train with us and giving me pep talks lol)
> 
> Title from Hamilton, because I want myself and everyone around me to suffer.

Kent Parson comes to Montreal on his Cup day. He’s nineteen and too sober for how much Bob has watched him drink already—like he’s numb to it with his narrow pupils and all that solid muscle. No gangly limbs, no trace of the bratty little kid that the Zimmermanns pretended they thought was sleeping on Jack’s floor.

Except the eyes. Those are the same.

Kent laughs at something Mario says. He swallows down an entire glass of champagne in two gulps, like he’s chugging beer that tastes like piss. He has an Adam’s apple now, bobbing in his throat.

Bob puts his hand on Kent’s back, pressing between his shoulder blades. “Maybe you should slow down, son,” he murmurs, in a way that isn’t really a suggestion.

Kent seems to take it as one. His eyes flash with something and he smirks when he snarks, “I’m good. Thanks,  _ Dad.” _

_ Same bratty kid,  _ Bob thinks. Then he notices the bloody, chewed hangnails on Kent’s fingers, the red-rim under his eyes, feels the way his shoulders shake. Adds,  _ Not quite. _

Mario raises a sympathetic eyebrow and excuses himself from the conversation.

Bob slides his hand up to the back of Kent’s neck and squeezes, like he’s scruffing a cat. “Let’s take a walk, Kenny.”

Kent glares, and obeys.

Bob leads them away from the party, into an office space that used to be Alicia’s; she hasn’t finished clearing out her things, and it’s unnervingly half-empty. A slow draining of an old wound, like a stint shoved into a heart. It’s quiet when he closes the door behind them.

An uncomfortable beat of silence. Bob starts, “Listen, son, I know it’s been a hard year. It’s okay to be struggling—”

_ “Fuck  _ you!” Kent hisses, teeth bared like he’d like to use them. “I’m not—I did everything I was supposed to!”

Bob’s eyebrows fly up. “Kent—”

“I won the Cup for him,” Kent spits. “I won it for  _ you. _ ”

Kent shoves at Bob’s chest, explosive and clumsy, like he’s read about violence in books and thought he might try it out. His nostrils flare with something dangerously close to tears, a spoiled racehorse rearing in its stall.

Bob is forty-eight years old, a retired legend. He made a career out of punching the pretty ones out, cutting his knuckles on their teeth.

He stumbles.

They stare at each other. Bob’s mouth hangs open, useless. Always useless.

“You were supposed to—you’re supposed to be  _ proud  _ of me!” Kent’s voice is more like a sob, the anger twisting around his throat, and he when he lunges this time Bob catches him by the biceps reflexively. He’s gripping harder than he thinks he needs to, at first, but Kent proves him wrong.

His lip curls into something terrible, unsustainable, and then his entire face contorts as he struggles against Bob’s grip, petulant and venomous and hissing, “Fuck you— _ fuck you—”  _ when he writhes free and jams his shoulder into Bob’s chest.

Their bodies crush together when Bob slams against the wall, and Kent doesn’t move away. His forehead is pressed against Bob’s sternum and he isn’t quite sobbing. It sounds like his lungs are dying.

It sounds like when they pulled the tube out of Jack’s throat.

Kent’s knees hit the ground.

“Why aren’t—” His eyes are open and wide, pleading up at Bob from under long eyelashes, the kind in Renaissance paintings. His hands are shaking and they brush against Bob’s thighs. He looks like an altar boy, praying to a saint. “Why aren’t you proud of me, Daddy?”

Something twists deep in Bob’s gut. He feels like there’s a hand shoved down his throat, peeling scars from his stomach lining.

He’s hard.

His hands move by themselves; he wants to pull Kent up, hug him, tell him to go home and drink some water and it will all be better in the morning.

He puts them in Kent’s hair.

Kent whimpers. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead into Bob’s belly, nose resting against the curve of his belt buckle. His voice is small, broken. “How do I make you love me? What do I do?”

“Nothing,” Bob says, like he’s begging. “Nothing, son. I already do.”

Kent looks up again. His hands slide up and rest against Bob’s belt, stroking the leather and metal. “Show me,” he says. “Please.”

Bob can feel his bones creaking, resettling under his own, terrible weight.  _ This is not,  _ he thinks, as his hands tighten in Kent’s hair and Kent’s fingers snap open his belt buckle,  _ the worst of your sins. _

It should not be comforting.

Kent frees Bob’s cock from his boxers and sucks it into his mouth with too much practice, the strokes of his tongue unhurried and certain. Like a long awaited performance review.

_ This is not the worst of your sins. _

It is comforting.

Bob comes down Kent Parson’s throat and swipes the spit off of his mouth, like tenderness could help. He feels tender, brushing at the pout of this teenager’s swollen lips. Like he bruises on the cut of them.

Kent stands, brushing the dust off of his jeans. He looks up at Bob and smirks, wobbly and just a little, like they’ve shared a joke. “Can I have another drink, now?”

Bob swallows, does up the zipper on his pants. “Sure, son,” he says. “Whatever you want.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lol I came off anon come find me [on Tumblr!](http://www.yoursummerfrost.tumblr.com)


End file.
